liked with an electric cord and she would noiselessly throw those bony hips. Cuts in her flesh would close up around whatever was put in them, and that felt like nothing else in the world; she didnât permit this often, but when she did, it only took him seconds. Best of all, she didnât mind if he had other girlfriends. She never said a thing about it. And neither did they.
15
THE FIRST THING WOODS SAW WAS THE VERY THING LUTHER TOLD HIM TO LOOK for. Tilted, rusted, not a big Ferris wheel to begin with, it slouched above the foothills wearing a shawl of vines, several of its once-white cars missing like baby teeth. Next he saw the jet fighter, a Korea-era Sabre jet with its wings swept back and its intake gaping in an idiot
O
. The jet, once the terror of MiG Alley, now listed to its right as if lame; it now wept rust from the cracked, verdant bubble of its cockpit, its skin pocked with absent panels. A statue of Jesus Christ stood nearby. He was twice as tall as a man, his hands resting on a sword that he seemed intent on pulling from the ground, more resembling King Arthur than a prophet, except for the halo and the incongruously beatific expression on his linebackerâs face. Old paint flaked on his mighty chest and biceps, as it flaked on the sign beside him.
The Avalon Garden of Wonders and Motor Lodge stood on the Missouri side of the Oklahoma border, just a bit east of Hornet, Missouri, not far from the Devilâs Promenade. Built in 1948 by Arthur Britton, who called himself âKing of the Brittons,â it enjoyed a brief spasm of popularity in the early fifties but found itself closed when the interstate opened and starved Route 66 of cars. Like many roadside attractions, it suffered from a lack of identityânot that it would havenecessarily survived had it declared itself a military museum, or an amusement park, or a botanical garden, but the grafting together of all three provoked a sense of unease in even the youngest visitors. The greenhouse seemed, even when it had all its panes, too fragile to exist near the gaping mouth of the Sabre jet parked outside, as if the engine might roar to life, breaking the glass of the greenhouse and inhaling the stargazer lilies, birds of paradise, and other rare biota. The Christ, even when his white paint gleamed, had seemed embarrassed to stand before the cluster of motel rooms, as though he knew what sort of things went on behind their blue doors even as freckled boys shouted
Marco!
and
Polo!
at one another in between splashing and peals of laughter.
As Woods idled the F100 truck through the rubble that had once been a driveway, he considered the pool with its cracked and grassy lip, the trumpet-mouths of three stray tiger lilies blaring at him in the golden light of early evening. The motel rooms sagged, mired in their thickets of chicory, Queen Anneâs lace, and other less photogenic weeds. Some of the doors stood open, inviting him in. 9. 12. 17. The chipped and water-stained door to 9 seemed to open just a little farther, the darkness beyond revealing no hint as to what had moved it. He looped the pickup around the pool, starting as a great black shape flew up from it. He jogged the steering wheel in surprise and nearly drove into a mossy stone bench.
âHUH!â he cried. The winged thing flew up past the lip and then back down again. A vulture. Overcome by curiosity, Woods veered closer to the pool to see what else was in there. Three black-cowled carrion birds hunched and shouldered each other out of the way to get at the pink-gray, stringy guts of a doe. The carcass was flat, dried up, the fur of the neck dyed crimson. Luther had told him deer blood was second best after manâs.
Could there be another one of
them
here? Luther always told himto watch out when scouting ruins, that they werenât the only creepy-crawlers hiding from daylight in shamble-down buildings.
Number 9 opened a little farther.
He accelerated then, his
15
THE FIRST THING WOODS SAW WAS THE VERY THING LUTHER TOLD HIM TO LOOK for. Tilted, rusted, not a big Ferris wheel to begin with, it slouched above the foothills wearing a shawl of vines, several of its once-white cars missing like baby teeth. Next he saw the jet fighter, a Korea-era Sabre jet with its wings swept back and its intake gaping in an idiot
O
. The jet, once the terror of MiG Alley, now listed to its right as if lame; it now wept rust from the cracked, verdant bubble of its cockpit, its skin pocked with absent panels. A statue of Jesus Christ stood nearby. He was twice as tall as a man, his hands resting on a sword that he seemed intent on pulling from the ground, more resembling King Arthur than a prophet, except for the halo and the incongruously beatific expression on his linebackerâs face. Old paint flaked on his mighty chest and biceps, as it flaked on the sign beside him.
The Avalon Garden of Wonders and Motor Lodge stood on the Missouri side of the Oklahoma border, just a bit east of Hornet, Missouri, not far from the Devilâs Promenade. Built in 1948 by Arthur Britton, who called himself âKing of the Brittons,â it enjoyed a brief spasm of popularity in the early fifties but found itself closed when the interstate opened and starved Route 66 of cars. Like many roadside attractions, it suffered from a lack of identityânot that it would havenecessarily survived had it declared itself a military museum, or an amusement park, or a botanical garden, but the grafting together of all three provoked a sense of unease in even the youngest visitors. The greenhouse seemed, even when it had all its panes, too fragile to exist near the gaping mouth of the Sabre jet parked outside, as if the engine might roar to life, breaking the glass of the greenhouse and inhaling the stargazer lilies, birds of paradise, and other rare biota. The Christ, even when his white paint gleamed, had seemed embarrassed to stand before the cluster of motel rooms, as though he knew what sort of things went on behind their blue doors even as freckled boys shouted
Marco!
and
Polo!
at one another in between splashing and peals of laughter.
As Woods idled the F100 truck through the rubble that had once been a driveway, he considered the pool with its cracked and grassy lip, the trumpet-mouths of three stray tiger lilies blaring at him in the golden light of early evening. The motel rooms sagged, mired in their thickets of chicory, Queen Anneâs lace, and other less photogenic weeds. Some of the doors stood open, inviting him in. 9. 12. 17. The chipped and water-stained door to 9 seemed to open just a little farther, the darkness beyond revealing no hint as to what had moved it. He looped the pickup around the pool, starting as a great black shape flew up from it. He jogged the steering wheel in surprise and nearly drove into a mossy stone bench.
âHUH!â he cried. The winged thing flew up past the lip and then back down again. A vulture. Overcome by curiosity, Woods veered closer to the pool to see what else was in there. Three black-cowled carrion birds hunched and shouldered each other out of the way to get at the pink-gray, stringy guts of a doe. The carcass was flat, dried up, the fur of the neck dyed crimson. Luther had told him deer blood was second best after manâs.
Could there be another one of
them
here? Luther always told himto watch out when scouting ruins, that they werenât the only creepy-crawlers hiding from daylight in shamble-down buildings.
Number 9 opened a little farther.
He accelerated then, his
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